


Just Me & My Baby

by WinchesterWytch



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterWytch/pseuds/WinchesterWytch
Summary: There have been a lot of missed opportunities, but one weekend will change everything.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Just Me & My Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @katymacsupernatural’s 6k follower challenge. The fic is based on the aesthetic that Katy made for the challenge.
> 
> Dedicated to my editor and friend @cleighwrites. Thank you for the tough love on this one. Every time we work together, you help me to become a better writer.

Dean watches you bounce into the kitchen, smile plastered on your face, eyes crinkled at the corners, humming your favorite carol. He can’t help but smile himself, just the sight of you soothing the ragged edges of his soul, temporarily calming the nerves that are making him want to crawl out of his own skin like a shifter. Shuddering at the thought, he turns his attention back to you.

You’re singing softly while you pour yourself a cup of coffee, hips swaying to the music in your head. He’s so mesmerized by your backside that he almost drops the cup in his hand when you belt out the next line of the song at the top of your lungs and turn to face him with a flourish. Laughing, you grab your cup and the pot of remaining coffee and slide across the floor, Risky Business-style, gracefully stopping next to him without spilling a drop.

“Would you like some more coffee, babe?”

Stunned, all he can do is stare as you continue to smile sweetly, waiting for his answer. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised by the maneuver, every move you make is calculated and precise, yet fluid and lithe. There are times during hunts that you take his breath away with how efficient you are, agile, sometimes putting both him and Sammy to shame with your ability to easily take down whatever big bad the three of you are facing. His thoughts veer to more pleasant encounters where that agility has surprised and delighted him, bringing him to heights he’s never dreamed of before. His tongue presses against the backs of his teeth as he thinks about last night, pounding into your wet heat, your leg bent…

“Earth to Dean.” You’ve set your coffee cup down on the table and are snapping your fingers in front of his face. Letting his cup slide between his fingers to land on the table with a heavy thunk, his eyes flick to yours, and you chuckle. “You okay there, Winchester?”

Snagging your wrist, he brings your fingers to his lips, kissing each knuckle before pulling you between his legs and settling you on his thigh. “Perfect, sweetheart.” Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places a kiss at your temple. “So, you got big plans for us this weekend, huh?”

“Yep, but I’m still not gonna tell ya.” You bop him on the nose. “It’s a surprise.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I have a surprise for you, too,” he teases.

There’s a rhythm to your movements as you set the pot of coffee on the table then pat his chest, in a placating gesture. “Sorry, baby, it won’t be as good as mine. But I’m sure I’ll love it.”

He smiles widely, licking his lips as you begin to bounce on his leg, singing your carol again. “We’ll see about that, darlin’.”

He loves when you’re relaxed and playful like this, it keeps that small sliver of hope inside him alive; lets him believe that there’s still something worth fighting for, something that matters. Finishing your song, you lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder, fingers playing with the buttons on his flannel.

“Love you, Dean.”

The comforting scents of your shampoo and rich coffee tickle his nose, and he presses his lips into the hair on top of your head, breathing you in as he squeezes your hip. “Love you, too.” You tilt your head back to look at him, and he leans in, capturing your lips with his.

“Morning.” Sam clears his throat as he walks into the kitchen.

Dean hears your soft chuckle as he groans at the interruption, you smile into the kiss, then pull away, and he chases your lips not wanting it to end just yet.

“Where’s the coffee?” Sam grumbles, running his hands through his hair to smooth it out.

“Over here, Gimli,” you chuckle. Then whisper to Dean, loud enough so that Sam can hear, “What a grump.”

“That’s ripe coming from a mini hobbit,” he retorts as he walks toward the table.

Sam reaches for the pot of coffee, and you swat his hand away, sliding the pot out of his reach. “Nope. Sugar first.” You tilt your head up and tap your cheek for Sam to give you a kiss. He leans down, but instead of giving you a kiss, he snatches you from Dean’s lap. You squeal like a little kid as he twirls, spinning you in the air.

Dean shakes his head at the antics, watching the two people he loves the most enjoying a rare moment of fun. When Sam tosses you in the air like a toddler, he lets out a full belly laugh at the expression of angry shock on your face, throwing his head back and briefly closing his eyes. When he opens them again, the two of you are standing side by side, staring at him, mouths agape.

He immediately sits up straighter, feeling self-conscious his eyes dart between you and Sam. “What?”

You’re the first to move, rushing over and throwing your arms around his neck, giving him a tight squeeze and whispering in his ear, “I love you, Dean Winchester.” When you let him go, your eyes are bright, glossy, like you’re about to cry, he reaches for you and you spin on your heel yelling over your shoulder as you race out of the room. “We leave in an hour, you better be ready.”

Dumfounded, he turns to Sam. “What was that about?” Sam just shrugs, averting his eyes as he shuffles toward the table again, sitting opposite Dean.”She looked like she was ready to cry.” Sam’s still avoiding his gaze, and Dean huffs, “Sam, what’s going on?”

“Dude, I think she’s just happy.” Sam pours his coffee and breathes out a contented sigh as he takes the first sip.

Dean knows his brother too well, knows he’s trying to hide something. He tries a different approach. “Do you know what she’s got planned?”

Sam finally looks him in the eye. “No, I don’t.” Dean arches an eyebrow, silently pressing for more. “Look, all I know is that she made me promise not to call with any hunts.” He looks over his shoulder at the doorway, before adding, “Are you still going to ask her?”

The question makes his pulse jump, just thinking about it makes him break out in a sweat. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulls out the small velvet bag, opens it, and dumps the contents into his hand. He inhales sharply and then puffs his cheeks, before slowly blowing out a breath; a nervous, _‘Yeah’_ escapes with the air. He twirls the small emerald and diamond ring between his fingers, the gemstones sparkle in the fluorescent lights. Dean carefully puts the ring back in the bag and then back into his pocket. Raking a hand through his hair, his voice is strained, and he can barely get the words out when he asks, “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“Hell, yeah.” Sam stands, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he passes him, “If she didn’t love you, she would have left your stubborn, grumpy-ass years ago.”

Sam’s blatant observation puts him at ease, and he smiles at him in thanks. “Bitch.”

Sam nods with his own smile, responds, “jerk,” then leaves the room.

Dean is still smiling to himself as he takes a sip of his coffee and immediately spits it back into the cup. It’s cold as hell and tastes like shit now. Dragging the cup across the table as he stands, he also grabs the coffee pot, taking them both to the sink to clean them out, hands shaking slightly, thinking about the ring burning a hole in his pocket.

He’d had it custom made months ago but never seemed to be able to find the right time to ask you. He wanted everything to be perfect. The weekend he’d planned a couple months back was cut short, Donna and Jody needing an assist on a hunt. So, the ring remained hidden but always close at hand, tucked away in some pocket or other. He felt kind of bad riding on the coattails of the weekend you had planned, but he was tired of waiting, and it might be several more months before he had the opportunity again. Taking a deep breath, he goes in search of you to see if he can find out what’s wrong.

* * *

* * *

You rush down the hallway to the room you share with Dean, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Hearing Dean laugh like that broke your heart in two. One side elated that he was still able to express that kind of joy, the other side filled with pain that he rarely had the opportunity to feel _that_ happy, that free. You know Sam had been as stunned as you, instantly setting you on your feet to stare at Dean the same way you had. As soon as you get to the room, you close the door behind you and make a beeline to the closet. You hope the surprise you have for him will give him more chances to feel that kind of happiness.

The warmth you hold in your heart for the stubborn yet sensitive hunter keeps the cold of the concrete at bay as you kneel on the floor to shuffle through the pile of your old clothes in the back corner until you find the present you hid there. Carefully removing the tissue paper from the bag, you pull out the onesie and laugh at the saying you’d had custom printed on it. _This is my workin’ in the garage with Daddy shirt_ with a replica of Baby printed underneath the saying. You swap out the onesie for the card, once again laughing at what is written on the front. _Congratulations, you are going to be a great DILF!_ The tears you’d been holding back finally break free, thoughts of what a wonderful dad he’s going to be swirling in your head. You scoot over toward the desk and open the middle drawer, your hand stretched above your head, blindly rummaging through the contents, finally landing on a pen. You’d been thinking about what you wanted to write in the card since you had bought it the day the doctor confirmed your pregnancy, two weeks ago. The sight of Dean laughing with such abandon solidified what you wanted to say to the man that sacrificed so much of himself to make sure those around him felt safe and loved.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you tuck the card into the envelope, sealing it with a kiss before you put it back in the gift bag, and quickly hide it in your duffle next to the new lingerie you’d bought. You know that Dean will come looking for you soon to check on why you had gotten upset. Cheeks still wet with tears, you swipe them away, then head to the bathroom to wipe away every trace of your emotional outburst and grab the last of the toiletries you’ll need for the trip. As you step back into the bedroom, Dean opens the door, his eyes searching your face for signs of distress.

“Hey, babe. I’ll be ready to go in about ten.” You smile and wink at him, walking over to the bed to put your makeup bag into your duffle. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him cross his arms over his chest and arch an eyebrow. He knows that you know that he’s watching you, and he continues to stare you down until you finally look him in the eye.

“What?”

“You gonna tell me what upset you? Was it Sammy? If so, I’ll talk to him about not teasing you like that.”

“No!” The intensity of his stare makes you blurt out the single syllable louder than you intended.

You saunter over to him, tugging at his forearms until he uncrosses his arms, letting them fall to his sides. The purse of his lips and arch of his eyebrow, let you know he’s expecting a little more information. You arch an eyebrow in return and throw him a coy smile, as you grab his hands and bring them to rest on your hips. As you step closer to him, your hands slide along the fabric of his shirt, fingers splaying across his chest. The steady thump of his heart under your right hand sends a shiver down your spine. You hum softly, breathing in Dean’s unique scent, spice and gunpowder with undertones of motor oil and leather. The beat of his heart escalates as you push up on your toes and skim your body along his to give him a peck on the cheek before backing out of his hold. “I’m just happy, excited about spending some quality time alone with my hunky boyfriend.”

The complement and suggestive flirting appear to have worked to distract him from his original mission. His tongue is pressed against the backs of his teeth, breaths labored, and eyes fixed on your mouth. His mind has clearly moved on to more carnal places.

Smiling your sweetest smile, you reach for his hand and propose, “Let’s get the car loaded up, shall we?” You’re unable to control your laugh when his smile turns into a pout at your alternate suggestion.

~~~~~~~~***********~~~~~~~~~

Eight hours later, you walk through the door of the cabin, Dean’s appreciative whistle swirling through the open space. A warm hand comes to rest on your lower back, “Damn, sweetheart, how much did this cost?”

The place is even more beautiful than in the pictures. “Not as much as you’d expect.” A friend of a friend had helped you secure some major discounts on the booking. Christmas lights and greenery are strung throughout the home, a large tree sits in the corner to the left of the fireplace, completely decorated, lights illuminating the large room. Two stockings hang from the fireplace mantle, and on further inspection, you find each of your names embroidered on them.

“There’s something in them,” you gasp, shoving your hand inside.

“Hey, aren’t we supposed to wait until Christmas?” his deep voice admonishes, resting his chin on your shoulder, an arm sliding around your waist.

The small package you pull from the stocking is beautifully wrapped in a blue and silver patterned paper, glittery silver ribbon, and tiny jingle bells adorn the top. You lean back into his chest, pouting. “That’s two days away. We can open one present, can’t we?”

The low rumble of his laughter resonates through you as he reaches around you to pull a similar package from his stocking. “Sure, why not?”

Carefully removing the ribbon from the box, you lay it on the mantle wanting to save it as a memento of this weekend. Inside the wrapped boxes, you find that the rental company has gifted each of you a small box of fancy chocolates and coupons for a discount off your next stay with them. The two of you finish touring the place, eating the chocolates, and oohing and ahhing at all the beautiful details of the cabin and the gorgeous view through the long glass wall to the right of the fireplace.

Afterward, Dean brings in the luggage and gifts, while you make a quick and easy dinner of soup and sandwiches, neither of you has eaten since the quick breakfast you’d stopped for that morning. The kitchen is fully stocked with all the food and ingredients you’d requested, which thankfully meant you wouldn’t need to go shopping during your stay.

The weather has been pretty mild so far, just a smattering of snow and above-average temperatures. You hope it will at least snow tonight since Christmas Eve is tomorrow, but you’re content to stay right where you’re at for now. While you took care of the clean up after dinner, Dean had gotten the firepit on the deck going. The two of you snuggle up next to each other; you comfy in your thick sweater, Dean in his standard t-shirt and flannel, cups of hot chocolate in hand, legs and feet stretched out toward the warmth of the fire.

The cool night air is starting to get to you, so you nudge his shoulder with your head. Dean gets the hint and places his cup on the deck next to his chair to bring his arm up and around your shoulders and tuck you into his side. “Someone sure is needy lately.”

You smack his chest and then rest your hand on his thigh, fingers stroking the worn denim covering his leg. “Can you blame me? You’re like a furnace, my own personal space heater.”

“It’s okay.” Resting his head on yours, his warm breath tickles your ear. “I like it when you get all clingy. It makes me feel needed.”

The last sentence is barely a whisper, and a small whimper escapes your lips; you still the hand on his thigh, giving it a squeeze as you lean away to place your own cup on the deck. Dean scrunches up his face as you stand to face him, his brow furrows, a deep ‘H’ forming in the middle, lips pressed in a thin line. The corner of your mouth quirks, watching him, knowing that he’s trying to figure out what he said to ruin the mood.

Bending down, you straddle his legs and settle into his lap, and his hands instinctively grip your hips. Your hands cup his face, thumbs brush along his brow bone, trying to smooth away the sadness and guilt. You lift his head until his eyes meet yours. “Dean Winchester, I will always need you. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

He drops his eyes, mumbling, “You could do better.”

Righteous anger and sadness war inside you, knowing that there is no one more deserving of love and respect. No one more deserving of happiness. Anger wins, and you flatten your palms against the side of his head, the growl rumbling low in your chest brings his startled gaze back to you.

“Now you listen to me, Winchester,” voice stern and commanding as you continue, “and you make this stone one. There is no one that I will ever need more than you. No one that I want to be with more than you. You and I,” you drop a hand to wave a finger between the two of you, “we work; we’re a team. For me, that will never change. I will love you, always.” Lightly slapping his cheek, you smile. “You got that?”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “Yeah, I got it.” He drags a hand across the back of his neck, sliding it around to wrap his fingers over your wrist. Crisp winter air fills your lungs as you take a deep breath, and you close your eyes as you slowly exhale, reveling in the warmth, the scrape of stubble, the lush softness as he turns to place a kiss on your palm. Your right hand is now resting on his chest, the thud of his heart thrumming a steady beat into your palm, the pace quickens as you roll your hips into him.

Pulling your hand away from his face, he cradles it in his, between the two of you. Fingers ghost the back of your hand, making you shiver in delight. You open your eyes to watch, mesmerized, as his middle finger traces a feather-light trail from the tip of your ring finger to your wrist, making your hand twitch at the sensation when he repeats it. He appears to be lost in thought as you watch his profile. You exhale around his name, “Dean,” voice thick with emotion. “I have something to tell you.”

He hums in response, finger still ghosting across your skin. You take another deep breath and brush your lips against his temple and slide out of his lap. His hand tightens around yours, wide dark eyes darting to your face. He looks upset, frustrated, but you know what your about to tell him will quickly change that.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” he huffs, tugging at your hand.

“I want to give you one of your presents.” His tongue rolls across his sinful lips, leaving a glossy sheen as it retreats back into his mouth and an eyebrow arches in question, making you laugh. “All in due time. I have something that I think will make you happier than that.” You pause, the thought never occurred to you until now, that maybe he wouldn’t be happy about bringing a child into the life. Chewing your bottom lip, you add, “Well, I hope it makes you happy.”

“Sweetheart, nothing makes me happier than making you scream my name,” he laughs, the deep husky one that makes your toes curl.

“Stay here.” Not waiting for his response, you slip your hand from his and race into the house, stopping up short as you reach the tree. You take a couple of deep breaths, shaking your hands at your side, trying to release some of the nervous energy that’s threatening to burst from you like a supernova. One last deep breath and you snatch up the bag, then a glass and bottle of whiskey from the side table, and you force yourself to walk slowly back outside.

The fire is blazing brightly, Dean probably stoked it while you were inside. He looks so peaceful, reclining back in the chair, eyes closed, lips parted in a soft smile, the glow of the fire illuminating his face in a haze of soft yellow and orange. You’d be perfectly content to stand there and stare at him all night.

“Whatcha got there, babe?” The rumble of his raspy voice pulls you back into the moment with a startled squeak.

You take one step and stop, feet rooted in place, heart threatening to leap from your chest, breaths shallow and quick, panic setting in. What if he really isn’t happy about this? What if he pushes you away, asks you to leave the bunker, or worse… Your hands grip tightly around the handles of the bag, trying to push those thoughts away. No, Dean wouldn’t do that. You know he wants to be a dad, an alcohol-filled game of truth or dare had brought that fact to light one evening.

“Sweetheart, you okay?”

The concern in his voice brings you back into the moment. Taking a steadying breath, you smile hesitantly, tears pooling along your lower lashes. “I- I’m just nervous about this gift. I really, really hope you like it.”

His soft, “Hey,” sends a tear rolling down your cheek, and he reaches for you. “C’mere.”

Feet still cemented in place, you breathe out a heavy sigh, pushing the doubt to the back of your mind and take the last couple of steps over to him. You set the whiskey down next to his chair and place the tumbler over the neck of the bottle; the clink of the glass resonates like a church bell in the distance. He guides you between his legs, setting you sideways on his thigh, a large hand on the small of your back, the other cradling your head against his shoulder. The solid strength and warmth of him immediately calm your jangled nerves, and you hear him laugh as you wipe your tears away with his flannel. Calloused fingers brush along your jaw before he grips your chin, bringing your head up so that he can see your face.

“I will love anything that you give me. OK?”

You sniff and nod your head then hand him the bag. He shifts in the chair, getting comfortable again with you still sitting on his leg. A huge smile spreads across his face as you watch him slowly pull the tissue paper from the bag. His eyes meet yours as he reaches in and pulls out the onesie first. His eyes drop back to the gift, and you watch his face intently as he unfolds the small piece of fabric.

He chuckles as he reads the saying, smiling at you before looking back at the tiny outfit in his hands, rereading it. You can see the exact second his brain finally registers what it means. Stunned eyes dart back and forth between you and the shirt, mouth agape, he tries to speak and chokes on the words. His throat bobs as he swallows, he scrubs a hand down his face and then looks to you once again. “Are you… does this… are we… ?” A single tear momentarily clings to thick lashes before sliding down his cheek in a grand escape, triggering another release of yours.

Laughing through your tears at his inability to finish a sentence, you nod and whisper, “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

The card forgotten, Dean lets out a thunderous whoop, bounding up from the chair, fists in the air, and sends you sliding down his leg to land on your ass with a heavy thud and a startled squeak.

“Oh, shit, shit.” He scoops you up, pulling you tightly against his chest, arms trapped at your sides and legs dangling. “Fuck, I’m sorry, sweetheart. You okay?”

Squirming, you try and loosen his grip. “I can’t… breathe.”

“Damnit, shit, sorry.” He quickly sets you down, sliding down on his knees to kiss your belly. Immediately pulling away, concern spreading across his features as he peers up at you. “Fuck, is that okay? Can I- Can I touch your belly?”

A new wave of tears spill down your cheeks, and you genuinely hope that this doesn’t become a trend for the next eight months. You grip his chin, lean down to place a kiss on his forehead, and you thumb the wetness from his cheek as you straighten back up. “Dean, you’ve had permission to touch me wherever you’ve wanted for years, I’m not going to take that away now.”

He lays his head against your stomach, and you cradle it with one hand, fingers of the other hand carding through his hair. He puts the onesie on the chair and then long, thick fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, bringing the cool air with them, making you shiver as they wrap around your hips, thumbs brushing across the bare skin above the waistband of your jeans. He’s talking to your belly, but it’s too low for you to hear what he’s saying. You tug gently at his hair when there’s a pause, “Dean?” He tilts his head up to look at you, grinning from ear to ear, his face awash in wonder, but you need to hear him say it. “Are you happy?”

* * *

* * *

His smile falters, as he watches you anxiously chew at your lip, apprehension painted across your features. There’s so much he wants to say to you right now, but can’t get the words past the lump stuck in his throat, a hushed, “Yes,” is all he can manage as his fingers dent into the flesh of your hips.

It seems to be enough, the smile you give him in return is brighter than the sun at high noon, and right then, he knows this is it. There is only one thing that could make him happier than he’s ever dreamed possible. Slipping a hand from your waist, he struggles to get his fingers inside his jeans pocket. Just as he begins to pull the small bag free, you squeal loudly, and the next second you’re gone from his grasp, the moment lost.

A frustrated groan passes through gritted teeth, and he slumps back on his heels, watching as you rush to the railing, yelling excitedly over your shoulder, “Did you see that?”

“See what?” he replies, running a hand through his hair.

“A shooting star!” You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, turning your head to apparently follow the path the star had taken. Resigned, he stands, tucking the small package back into his pocket, laughing as another squeal reaches his ears. “C’ mere, look.” You frantically wave your hand behind you, eyes focused ahead. “Hurry up.”

He cages you between his arms as he steps up behind you, placing his hands on the railing, eyes following the direction in which your finger is pointing, he squints to try and make out what you see. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“The clearing, over there, are those foxes?”

He leans over your shoulder to get a better look, “Yeah, I think they are.”

You spin in the small space between his arms, jumping up and down, hands excitedly drumming on his chest. “Let’s go.”

Confused, he furrows his brow. “Go where?”

“To the clearing, it looks so beautiful. Let’s go check it out.” Still drumming your hands against his chest, you tilt your head and pout, “please,” drawing out the word.

Damn, he never could resist that pout, and now that you’re going to be the mother of his child, he knows he’ll never be able to say no to you again. _Shit_, he’s so fucked.

“Alright, alright.” He looks to the sky, raising his hands in surrender, and then places them over yours, flattening them against the fabric of his shirt to stop the beating.

He looks down at you, shakes his head, and then stills, eyebrows arching and lips parting in wonder. The moon is bright, high in the midnight sky, the chilly winter air giving sharp focus in contrast to the ethereal halo of blue and silver the moon casts around you. _Stunning_, all other thoughts fade into the background. He’s always seen you as beautiful, but right now, you are breathtaking; cheeks flushed, eyes bright and clear, lips begging to be kissed; the mother of his child.

Then you smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and his heart swells as the realization hits him that a piece of paper and a ring on your finger isn’t going to change anything between the two of you. He’s never going to stop needing you, stop worrying about your safety, stop loving you. He’d still like to make it official, especially now, but he can wait, content in the knowledge that you love and need him just as much.

You squirm against him, trying to bring his attention back to you. The first brush of your fingers across his bare skin, as you slide them under his t-shirt, makes him yelp in shock at how cold they are. “OK, darlin’, time to go inside.” The drop in temperature had gone unnoticed, apparently by the both of you, too caught up in the events of the evening. Goosebumps pebble his skin as your fingers continue to roam his torso, he slaps his hands over yours again, stilling their movement. “Stop,” he laughs.

The chilly tip of your nose presses against his skin as you push up on your toes to snuggle into his neck, your heated breath, a stark contrast as it fans his ear. “But I want to go to the clearing.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “But first, we need to get you warmed up. Can’t have my baby momma gettin’ sick.” You pull back to stare at him, mouth agape, eyes unblinking. His whole body tenses, eyes locked with yours, mind racing, waiting for a cue from you as to what he needs to do. The corner of your mouth quirks up, and then you burst out laughing. He lets out a sigh of relief, nervously laughing with you but not sure what about.

“Well, that’s gonna take some getting used to.” A hand slips from beneath his shirt to gently rub your belly. The sharp intake of your breath sounds like you’ve been punched in the gut. You jerk your other hand free, slapping it over the other one, pressing it into your stomach, and dropping your gaze.

Moments later, your wide, panic-filled eyes meet his, “I- I’m going to be a mom. I don’t know how to be a mom. What are we gonna do? Fuck.”

He doubles over in laughter at the shock plastered on your face. “Babe, did you not think about that before? I mean, if I’m gonna be a dad, then obviously, you’re gonna be a mom.”

“No. Yeah. Not really.” You puff out a loud breath, your eyes darting around the deck, before focusing back on him. “I was so caught up in telling you and how you were going to feel, and then we had those back to back hunts, that I haven’t had time to really process it.” Tears well up, and you blink, sending them cascading down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, shh.” He slips an arm around your back and one behind your legs, bringing you to his chest. You curl into him, a hand fisting in his flannel. “Son of a bitch.” The chilliness of your forehead steals the warmth of his lips as he presses them against your skin, he can smell the frigid air of winter in your hair, can feel just how cold you are now, and curses himself for not realizing it sooner. “I gotcha, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your cheek.

Once inside, he lays you on the couch, covering you with the heavy wool blanket that was draped over the back, cursing again as he watches you shiver. Cold fingers grip his hand as he turns away, “Don’t go. Need my s- space heater.”

He chuckles and slides your hand back under the blanket, then tucks the edges tighter around you. “Just going to put out the firepit and bring our things in, okay?” You nod, and he places a quick kiss on your cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll be here.” You blow him a kiss and smile as you close your eyes.

He makes quick work of dousing the fire and gathering the discarded cups of hot chocolate, and the forgotten bottle of whiskey and tumbler. Not wanting to accidentally spill any of the liquid on his present, he takes the dishes inside first and then steps into the cold night air one more time to collect the best gift he’s ever received. He’s the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. Clutching the tiny outfit to his chest, he lifts his eyes to the heavens, praying to the only angel he believes in, asking him to watch over his growing family and help keep them safe. A swirl of frosty air nips at his skin, and he opens his eyes just as a star shoots across the night sky.

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispers as he turns to step back inside.


End file.
